


Open Heart and Absent Dream

by escritoireazul



Category: Goblin Market - Christina Rossetti
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest, Temptation, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 16:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2819078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are sisters always, hand in hand, and together they fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Heart and Absent Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctornerdington](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctornerdington/gifts).



1.

_“We must not look at goblin men,_  
_We must not buy their fruits:_  
_Who knows upon what soil they fed_  
_Their hungry thirsty roots?”_

Lizzie’s body presses soft and warm against Laura, her tangled hair spread across Laura’s neck. Her cheeks are flushed from fresh air and sunshine, and her lips are pink and plump, damn where she brushes her tongue across them, chasing the taste of sour-sweet lemonade and the last of their cucumber sandwiches.

Laura cups three stones in the palm of her hand, smooth and cool and still wet from the stream, turning them one over the other. They rasp so soft, the scrape of rock against rock and flesh, and the sound makes her shiver, delicious tremors trickling like water from the top of her scalp down her spine. She squeezes them tight, then lets them fall and reaches for her sister, brushing her fingers across Lizzie's cheek, the corner of her mouth, her full lower lip.

Lizzie kisses her fingertips, sting of teeth and sweet brush of tongue easing the bite away. She curls one foot along Laura’s ankle, easing up her skirt to allow warm sun on bare skin. That earns her a languid smile, and a soft puff of a sigh.

Laura reaches down, lightly rests her hand on Lizzie’s knee beneath her skirt, then, each motion a study in care, she walks her fingers higher. Lizzie rolls away to give her room, lets her legs fall open wide, and Laura settles between them. Skirt, petticoat, bare skin – she hums in pleasure, surprise, and lowers her mouth to where Lizzie is warm and wet.

Lizzie mewls, clutches grass, tears it from the earth as she twitches and squirms, and Laura takes her time, drawing out the pleasure, lips and teeth, fingers and tongue, all slicking through Lizzie's quim.

After, she’s pliant, curled in Laura’s arms, and though Laura’s body still sparks, she lets her sister rest instead. There’s a song in the distance, just at the edge of her hearing. She cants her head and listens hard, and as each note reaches her, every inch of her body warms and grows tense.

 _Oh,_ she breathes in, she breathes out, she knows that song. The goblins, they come.

“Lie close,” Laura says, tucks Lizzie’s face against her shoulder. “We must not look at goblin men. We must not buy their fruits.”

Despite her best intentions, she keeps her eyes open, watching, waiting. Their cries linger like the song in her ears, until her every thought is of the flesh bursting ripe across her tongue, sticky and sweet. She licks her fingers, searching for the taste of her sister, distraction from all things, but all she tastes is salt-sweat and dirt.

2.

_She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more_  
_Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;_  
_She suck’d until her lips were sore;_

Laura twines her fingers into her hair, golden curls twist round, and with easy strength, she pulls, until the pain flashes bright, a steady sting, a flicker of heat in her belly. It brings a wash of tears, and the goblin touches a finger to the corner of her eye. It catches the tear on its skin and brings it, glistening, to its mouth, yellow-orange tongue beneath thin, pale lips.

She sinks to her knees, skirts spread, holds out her hands, tilts up her face. This is like not fruit she has ever seen, apples delicate and small, more tart than sweet, underlying cinnamon and salt; berries as big as her fists, bursting when she licks them into her mouth. She smears the meat of each piece across her cheeks and chin, lets the juice drip down her throat.

“Pretty Laura,” the goblins cry, voices pitched low, voices pitched high. “Come try, come try.” Their tongues stretch out, pale and thin, forked and pointed, and flicker against her skin, twist round her wrists, curl up ankle to calf to knee.

She swallows convulsively, juices thick on her tongue, down her throat, and breathes unsteady through her nose. Her body quakes, strength drains from her limbs, her fingers and toes go numb. Her mouth stretches wide around their fruit, until her lips grow sore, her jaw aches, and still she swallows and swallows and swallows them down.

3.

_“Nay, hush,” said Laura:_  
_“Nay, hush, my sister:_  
_I ate and ate my fill,_  
_Yet my mouth waters still;_  
_To-morrow night I will_  
_Buy more;” and kiss’d her_

Laura staggers into the kitchen as the sun rises. Lizzie sits at the table, hair bound back, wearing her nightdress, waiting. A teapot sits in the center of the table, one empty cup at Laura’s place, Lizzie’s hands curled carefully around her own.

“I thought you lost,” she says, and her voice trembles.

“To you, never, hush,” Laura says, and the words feel so good on her tongue, she must say it again and again. “Hush, hush, my sister, lost to you, never.”

She sheds shoes, damp cloak, dress and petticoat as she crosses the room, nudges open Lizzie’s legs so she can settle in her lap. Lizzie makes a strangled cry and buries her face against Laura’s chest. Though there is nothing to it but comfort and relief, Laura still trembles. Her lips feel swollen, her breasts tight buds, and the wet warmth between her legs needs more.

Laura takes Lizzie’s hand and guides it down, down, nails against her stomach, slender fingers curling through damp hair, and then slip inside, where she needs them. She quivers, rocks forward, pressing her sister’s thumb to where it makes her spark. She means for it to be slow, reassuring, but her body is primed, fruit on her tongue, in her throat, and she cries out, cries out, cries out.

“Laura, let go,” Lizzie says, voice strained, “please, you’re hurting me, dear.”

Laura comes back to herself then. She’s risen up, pinning Lizzie to the chair, fingers so tight on her arms she brings dark marks to the surface. She is frenzied, she is wild, she has no idea what she’s done.

“Oh,” she cries, pleasure roiling, “oh, oh, oh.” She means to say, I’m sorry. She means to say, dear sister, my sister, I would never hurt you. She means to say – but her body is alight, and she heaves for air.

With another cry, she shoves herself away, twists her body from of Laura’s, falls to the floor. The wood is warm from the stove, smooth and soft against her skin, and Laura writhes against the heat, works her fingers between her legs.

Lizzie’s face is all she sees, cheeks pale, mouth gaping, and Laura closes her eyes.

4.

_One content, one sick in part;_  
_One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,_  
_One longing for the night_

Laura cannot keep her eyes open. Her head droops, chin to her chest. Her hands are too heavy to lift. Her feet drag with each step. Her thoughts drift. She sets out to heat water for tea, and Lizzie finds her, hours later, sitting on the floor in the corner, knees drawn up to her chest. She sits down to eat breakfast with Lizzie, but her food grows cold as she watches the movement of the sun across the sky.

“Laura,” Lizzie says, and Laura will look up at her, blinking a golden haze from her eyes. Lizzie presses her lips tight together, and frowns, but says nothing more.

Sleep threatens, always, but does not come. Laura yawns through her days, lies in bed wide awake at night. She sneaks out of their bed, eases open the door, lets herself into the yard. She sits and waits, twisting her fingers into cold dirt, but she never hears their song.

The moon grows full, fades away, waxes and wanes, and still she waits.

5.

_Lizzie utter’d not a word;_  
_Would not open lip from lip_  
_Lest they should cram a mouthful in:_  
_But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip_  
_Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,_  
_And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,_  
_And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd_

Laura sits awake in the darkness, skirt gathered beneath her, staring up, up, up to the stars and the moon. Her world, even in the darkness, is gray and wan. Her tongue has been scraped clean, all taste gone. When she passes her fingers over fabrics, wood, stone, she feels nothing. Her ears throb with the silence. No scents fill her nose.

She is worn thin, feels nearly incorporeal, and when the wind wraps around her, she closes her eyes, waits for it to carry her away.

“Laura!”

The sound is distant, dim, easy to ignore. If it is even real. Perhaps it is a dream tempting Laura away.

“Laura!” Lizzie’s voice comes again, louder now, carried strong on the breeze, and with it, with it, with it comes the smell -- oh, that smell, fruit and goblin, and, with a quiver in her belly, Laura opens her eyes.

Lizzie is golden even at night, glistening beneath the moon. Something drips from her fingers as she reaches for Laura, thicker than water, the slow trickle of syrup -- no. Oh. Laura tips her face up to the sky and opens her mouth, takes Lizzie’s fingers across her tongue.

“Oh, my Laura,” Lizzie says, voice like bells, “What are you doing out here?”

Laura can only flick her tongue into the creases between Lizzie’s fingers, sucking away the juice that pools and slips down her throat.

“Come, my dear,” Lizzie says, pressing close, “and kiss me.” She slips her fingers from Laura’s mouth, and Laura groans, trying to follow the sweet scent. Lizzie catches her head in both hands and draws her closer. Laura reaches out, lifts Lizzie’s skirt. Her skin is darkened, bruises threaded up her thighs. When Laura hesitates, Lizzie tugs her forward.

“Never mind my bruises.” Her voice is full in her throat. She’s bare beneath her skirts, skin smeared with lush pieces of fruit, thick syrup, the smell everywhere. “Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices. I took the goblin fruits for you, bound them to me, brought them here. Eat me, drink me, my Laura, my love.”

Laura grabs her waist and falls backward, pulling Lizzie down with her, atop her, legs spread wide, skirt falling down to encircle Laura in darkness. She doesn’t need to see, presses tongue to skin, slurping, swallowing. Above her, Lizzie moans and trembles, twitches and cries, as Laura works her mouth along wet skin until she can thrust her tongue inside.

The flavors burst across her tongue, sweet-salt-sour -- no, that’s not right. The fruit is glorious for always. She gulps and nuzzles, licks and nips, and the taste of fruit burns out, turns to ash on her tongue. She tries to pull away, but Lizzie’s legs tighten around her, hold her in place.

She twists, she struggles, muffled shouts, and then the ash is gone, washed away in the wash of Lizzie over her tongue, down her throat. It is salty-sweet and familiar, and Laura sucks and sucks until her lips go numb.

6.

_Like a foam-topp’d waterspout_  
_Cast down headlong in the sea,_  
_She fell at last;_  
_Pleasure past and anguish past,_  
_Is it death or is it life?_

When Laura wakes, at last, she’s in bed, wearing a fresh nightdress. All the tangles are combed from her hair, and it settles along the pillow, shiny and smooth. Her skin is clear, her cheeks no longer sunken but full.

She stretches, and her muscles are deliciously strong, no hint of weakness or pain.

“Laura!” Lizzie rushes to her, bringing tea and the smell of fresh flowers. She’s warm and flushed from the sun and oh so beautiful. “You’re awake! Oh, sister dear.” She carefully sets two cups of tea on the night table and curls up next to Laura in bed, settling the covers over them both.

Laura rests her head on Lizzie’s shoulder, and listens to her chirp on about how happy she is, and what’s been happening while Laura slept and healed. Her sister’s voice is sweet and full, but in it, Laura hears -- well.

One sister fell to a temptation the other did not. They have never been one without the other. It is always Laura and Lizzie, Lizzie and Laura, falling, falling, falling together. Lizzie leans into her sister’s warmth, breathes in, and closes her eyes.


End file.
